Imagine being teased, cajoled, bullied, and charmed all at once, mercilessly, by a deranged, silver-tongued ingénue. Why are her hands behind her back? Because she's fondling the butterfly knife she's about to slice you up with. No mystery that "212" represents a sharp-elbowed gauntlet thrown at establishment rap's tailored, manicured feet, but thirtysomething dudes with bulging Discogs résumés are hardly Banks's only marks.
Crush ice with a handful of watermelon Jolly Ranchers; chill for an hour. Add a tablespoon of grenadine, three fourths of a cup of Mike's Hard Lemonade, and two cups of vodka. Shake thoroughly. Serve guests. Make dry, off-hand joke about the Cranberries and T-Pain beating one another unconscious with pastel Nerf Crotch Bats.
"Better Than I Know Myself"
Not quite ripped straight from the TMZ headlines, will never merit its own very special Law & Order: SVU episode.
What if a neurotransmitter cord came loose in your skull, causing your brain to misinterpret what your eyes really saw? What if you weren't actually dreaming about a compressed-perception fireworks display that never ended? What if your panic attack became your waking reality?
"The Daily Mail"
The bad news: A Radiohead-sanctioned salute to the Occupy movement took forever to arrive. The good news: Not only does "Mail" top the entirety of The King of Limbs, it's a mushroom-cloud stunner, emerging cloaked in closing-time piano chord dolor and departing in dour, low-impact funk splendor.
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